Pondering Poland
June 28, 2009
I’ve only been back for two days and figured I had better journal this experience before my memory plays its’ usual game of patchwork prioritizing.
Excuse the generalizations if you are one of those people who never do that, or find it abhorrent. I generalize and do it as often as possible. My mind isn’t structured not to do it.
I was not ready for Poland and I can wholeheartedly admit it. My experience with my music and storytelling has been similar to the itinerate bard of ages past who plied his trade under, often, questionable conditions in less than reputable venues. But, as my grandmother always said, “bills must be paid.”
The thing that I wasn’t prepared for was the level of popularity that the Craft of Storytelling enjoyed in Poland. My host explained that storytelling had not taken hold in the culture like he would desire it to, but everywhere I turned I experienced people who were passionate listeners. At every show we did, the audiences offered faces of intense interest and desire to gain something from the experience. We even had people follow us back home to engage in all night sessions of continued tale telling.
I, personally, seemed to be most popular with women, 70 to 85 or so. I kept having these very intimate conversations and getting approached back stage by elderly women with bright youthful eyes and tons of questions. As always, the children were reliable participants in the storytelling experiences, but I have to say that I found the adoration of the elderly something I could really get used to.
I had so many opportunities to listen to tellers, professional and non professional, that I often lost track of where I was or where we were going. I was listening or telling tales so often that, at one point, I even went out to perform with my clothing on “inside-out” and one sock on. I had been engaged in a conversation with an elderly man about the Warsaw Ghetto. This was prior to my time to go out on stage and I forgot to get dressed. His story was so intense that I felt ashamed at having to leave and go perform. It was fortunate for me that the old man waited. I spent quite a bit of time listening to his story.
I knew that diversity was not Poland’s strong suite but I didn’t know that meant .001% of other ethnicities lived there. I was told that there were lots and lots of people of color in Poland. I was told this often but either my eyes were deceiving me or I went a week without encountering another person of color. Why do I mention this you might ask? Well, I found myself reflecting on James Baldwin’s words and experience when he visited Switzerland and finished that seminal piece “Go Tell It on the Mountain.” Baldwin found himself the “only” person of color in a tiny Swiss Village. So many of his words were resonating deep within me now that I felt as though I had completely fathomed his words so many years ago. For those who want to read Baldwin’s own words, the article was titled “Stranger in the Village,” circa 1955.
The people I encountered in Poland, “all” went out of their way to make me feel comfortable. The hospitality I experienced was akin to that which I’ve experienced when visiting family “Down South.”
There were those who stopped and stared as if they had never seen a “good looking, tall-drink of water” (I’m sorry, I can’t help but joke sometimes… it’s just me), but I found those people in the minority.
The food. Oh my God! The food!
Why aren’t Polish people enormous? Potatoes, potatoes combined with breads, cheeses and pork prepared in a million different ways. And yet, I witnessed some of the most slender people on the planet walking around. Everyone was eating this type of food. I couldn’t eat this way. I would’ve come back needing 3 seats on the plane. Someone has seriously got to answer that question for me. Why aren’t Polish people fat?
All right, I’m going to close this out. My host was the Storytelling Museum, which is being built as we speak by Michal Malinowski. It is one of the most beautiful structures I have ever seen. Maybe, in my eyes, its’ beauty has to do with its’ dedication to the oral word.
I felt like I had a brother in Michal. We sometimes stayed up until the sun came out talking through the night. Our taste in literature, art, cultures of the world and music ran parallel. Although we were running from one scheduled event to another unplanned event at break neck speeds sometimes, I found the opportunity to tell tales with him to be an extremely joyful experience. There was one time he and I were relaxing in a park after a long day of about 5 or 6 performances. There was a bar nearby. Neither of us drinks alcohol but Michal suggested we go to the bar. “Why would we do that?” was my question. His response, “Maybe the people in there want to hear some stories.” You see why I said like a brother to me.
Now this will sound like some kind of opening to a joke but it is true. Two storytellers walk into a bar (Michal and I) and approach the owner to see if he wants his patrons to hear some stories. The owner was so happy to have us walk into his establishment that he turned off the radio, television and quieted everyone for our impromptu performance. It was a first for me. I can’t imagine walking into “any” bar in the U.S. and taking it over with storytelling.
Hmmmm. Maybe there’s a revolutionary idea in there somewhere.
Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da.
BTST-2009-06-15
June 15, 2009
Talk about trip to Poland in two days, A new hero who is a genius of math, Timeless Tale, Proverb of the Day, Close with a little Polish Music.
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Sleeping Beauty
June 11, 2009
Sleeping Beauty
Children today are drowning in the violent seas of extreme academic testing. I find no other way to say it. Extreme is the word for it when our educators are mandated to spend more time instructing towards testing objectives than teaching to the needs of the child.
I have a few teachers across California whom I call “my patrons.” Traditionally, no matter what society you examine, every bard had patrons who supported their music and storytelling activities. Without these benefactors, bards had no means to consistently ply their trade. Most of my patrons are teachers who, personally, schedule me to visit their classrooms; usually sometime during the end of mandated state and federal testing periods in their schools. I drop in to a classroom for about an hour to an hour and a half to try to bring some levity, humor, but also attempt to redirect the young minds back towards a joy of learning; which testing never did nor never will provide.
I went to visit one classroom in particular because this teacher explained to me that her students were “totally stressed out” following this testing period. Imagine that… 7, 8, and 9 year olds stressed out. Alright this is not the time or place for me to rant on the misguided, testing monstrosity that mires the minds of our children in a muddy mess of linear thought patterns and an overly aggressive need for compartmentalization that subliminally chants, “Don’t teach to think instruct for test.”
Oops… I apologize. I guess that was a bit of a rant, wasn’t it?
Anyway, back on track… this particular teacher made an urgent plea for me to come to her class and share music and storytelling. She, in her own words, was in desperate need of her children to decompress and unravel from the anxiety associated with their recent testing. She was also desperate for her room to regain the feeling of warmth that it had prior to being transformed into its’ current pressure cooker like condition.
When I arrived to the classroom, it was a sad, indescribable heart pain to see these gaunt visages on faces so young. As resilient as children can be, it didn’t take long before many of the expressions broke into bright, cheerful smiles. What was the reason for the smiles you might ask? Well, today was, definitely, not going to be a routine day. Often teachers and I will work in consort and not tell the children that their storyteller is coming. The benefit this has in breaking from routine is obvious.
I didn’t waste any time at all. I gathered the children around the storytelling area and plopped myself on the floor with them at their eye level. My benevolent benefactor positioned herself just to the rear of the children, smiling as much, if not more, vigorously than her learners at the heightened anticipation of our start.
I started with gentle harp playing and low-tone singing before transitioning into a fable about appreciation. These children had learned some of my songs on previous visits so they were primed to jump in and help out with the singing. I made sure to continue playing in a relaxed manner, somewhat larghetto, nothing allegro or prestissimo. I transitioned from one song to the next embedding tales within the music and proverbs within the stories. A well placed joke here or there to lighten the mood and continuous, soothing harp strings. It wasn’t long before I witnessed the dark eyes of all of the children brighten from dark mood I had initially encountered when first entering the room. I could sense the children relaxing and that affirmed my presence for me.
Sometime during the first 15, maybe 20 minutes, into our session, our little concert was interrupted by very soft, but audible, sounds of someone snoring. Seated in a small chair, to the rear of the children; there she was, my sweet supporter, the children’s teacher, passed out sleep and adorned with the calmest countenance I had ever seen on her. She was snoring a very peaceful, blissful snore. The children all turned to see where the snoring was coming from and immediately began giggling. I placed an index finger to my pressed lips and did a very quiet shush. I went back to playing my harp, just as softly as before and continued talking in relaxed, low tones launching into, yet, another tale. The children soon were immersed in the details of the tales, offering character suggestions, setting descriptions and their own ideas on advancing the plot.
I continued playing my harp for another 30 minutes or so. I wanted her to enjoy this rare, quiet, stolen moment in time. She had earned it.
After I finished, as if by magic similar to that possessed in the kiss from the handsome prince, our sleeping beauty awoke as the final note of the song faded into silence. Needless to say, she was embarrassed beyond belief and oh so apologetic. I tried to assure here that she had given me the greatest compliment a storyteller could ever receive.
Whenever I think of this particular session, I always break into a wide, spontaneous smile. These spontaneous smiles happen with me a lot and I have a fear that one day someone will choose to have me committed for them.
Here we had a teacher who was so concerned about the stress and anxiety that testing had wrought on her children that she never stopped to consider the ill effects this same situation was having on her.
There is a proverb that I love which sums up this incident better than any other words I might try to offer and it simply says, “When a mother is hungry she will ask… have the children eaten?”
Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da
Baba the Storyteller
http://www.babathestoryteller.com
Physically Incarcerated Youth
June 6, 2009
A few weeks ago I accepted an invitation to present to several different dorms of incarcerated youth at a Youth Authority Facility here in Southern California. I’ve never hesitated to accept invitations to ply my trade as a storyteller and this instance would be no exception. Entering the facility was exactly what one would imagine: clearing identity checks through security, mandatory guides while on the facility grounds, clearly delineated restricted areas, automated heavy steel doors, etc.
The reality of my situation set in during my introduction and briefing with the director of the detention center, which went something like this:
Director: “Here’s the layout of your visit, the first group you will be performing for are our high risk, mentally unstable serving 25 years to life The second group you’ll be performing for are housed in a segregated dorm, they are our population of sexual offenders, which is a much larger group than your first…”
I have to admit that my mind had not progressed beyond hearing the words 25 years to life and contemplating what crime these youth had committed to be sentenced to 25 years to life and what, exactly, qualified as “mentally unstable” or “high risk.” The director was amazingly warm, welcoming, and had a disarming charm about him; the kind of person you could imagine as a loyal, trusted friend. He continued running down the list of six different dorms that I would visit this day, each housing youth of specific category of criminal offense.
When he finished briefing me, he cheerfully looked me in the eyes and asked, “Is all of this alright with you Baba?”
My response, an uncompromising, enthusiastic… “yes, of course!”
There were hundreds of stories running through my head waiting to be chosen, along with ideas of movement, engagement and music. I had to wait until I was in the presence of each group to actually determine the pieces of the repertoire that would be most effective. The only concrete decision I had arrived at prior to seeing my audience were the themes; I definitely was going to offer them tales and music centered on fear as an illusion of reality and self-awareness and self-knowledge as keys to any type of positive growth.
I had already been told that my first group, those youth serving 25 years to life, were rarely permitted outside of their cells and had never received the type of programming that I had been brought in to deliver. I was the first, the grand experiment if you will.
Pressure?
For any thinking person… yes, but remember I’m the guy who chose the unconventional, possibly nonsensical, career path of as a storyteller so my cognitive capabilities are, quite often, called in to question. Nope! No pressure here.
The dorm was dark, subdued lighting with large cinder block walls painted in varying shades of grey. The brightness of the room came in the form of the artwork that the youth had been able to dress their dorm with. Their themes were acknowledging other cultures and they had chosen to put drawings of leopards, lakes and landscapes on a small, designated wall of their dormitory.
Upon entering the common area they are all required to walk with their hands behind their backs. Movement was strictly coordinated. They were not allowed to stand, walk or turn around without the consent of one of the councilors. Watching them enter and witnessing the visible signs of depression on many of their faces was heart wrenching. The vacant stares off into space and flat affect hinted to me that there was some degree of medicating although I had no other evidence of this.
This is going to sound a little cheesy in the way I describe it but, at the moment, I can’t think of any other way to describe it. You Vegas gamblers will appreciate the metaphor. While watching the inmates enter and listening to the sounds of their dorm, taking in the scents and the environment; it is as if a slot machine in my head is spinning different windows of stories to use, music to play and ideas towards facilitating conversation. Just before I am told that my audience is ready is the moment that the spinning abruptly halts and that jackpot that gamblers crave so desperately, hundreds of coins free falling; for me this moment is the epiphany revealing the right tale to tell, the music and words that will illicit engagement from my listeners.
I could see the trepidation in the eyes of a few of the councilors in allowing me to take over. After all, this was different, experimental… something that had not been tried before. I respected their apprehensions but also remembered that I came to do a job and my life is inextricably tied to my work. I took the reigns of control without hesitation and began presentation by playing my harp in a soothing manner, moving throughout the rows of small desk-chairs that the inmates were seated in, singing using very soft tones and alternating between the song and narrative. I opened this way because I thought it exhibited a level of vulnerability that might break the ice of unfamiliarity. While singing and playing I sought the eyes of the youth, surveying to see which of them were comfortable or uncomfortable with that level of intimacy. It is not surprising that most were not comfortable, only a few seemed to desire that level of engagement in the beginning.
At the end of the song, they all just sat there staring. For me, it was a beautiful silence. It’s hard to describe this specific type of silence, but let me try. There are two types of silence a performer may encounter at the close presenting their art form. One type is the silence equivalent to a comic that has just bombed, a very uncomfortable, intimidating, heavy silence filled with several dimensions negativity. The second is an awestruck, mesmerized silence as if you’ve just hypnotized your entire audience and they are still absorbing what you’ve just done. I have been on the receiving end of both so my sensibilities are quite clear in this area. My youth sat transfixed offering the second form of silence. I smiled, knowing that I had transcended the artificial barriers that segregated us… me as visitor, or performer, and them as inmates.
I proceeded with speaking, telling a few jokes and engaging them with questions interwoven within the tales. If anyone had been witness to their enthusiasm by the end of the performance they would have thought a miracle of transformation had occurred, that these youth had somehow overcome serious afflictions to finally feel themselves as part of our small, albeit, temporary community sharing music and stories. I would love to take credit for imbuing them with this moment of transcendence, but I can’t. The reality is that all human beings crave being acknowledged in some way, shape or form and the chance to have another human being view you with respect is the essence of interpersonal, social interaction. I simply filled a void that needed to be filled.
The rest of my visits throughout this long day elicited similar responses, some containing more laughter than others and music and tales changing depending on the dynamics of the group seated in front of me. Each group dictated my direction.
I would love to go into more detail of how each session occurred, the stories I was able to share, the youth’s response, questions and conversations but I respect my readers time and I’ve already run over what is probably the acceptable word length as far as bloggers are concerned.
I will sum this up by saying that my experience with these incarcerated youth was one of absolute positivity. I am not ignorant of the violence or harm that these youth have perpetuated on the innocent, nor am I in a state of denial about their need to be where they are. If we, as a society, are going to include the word “rehabilitate” in our vocabulary then we will need to clearly define what we mean by that and allow it to fall from the pages of our dictionaries into our lives. There are so many avenues available to touch the soul of another human being and if storytelling, music and other arts are, not only proficient at it, but exceptional, then we need to employ them more, not less, with our youth regardless of their station in life or socio-economic conditions.
Warmest regards from your ubiquitous bard remembering I am because we are… aluta continua.
Baba the Storyteller
Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.
